


Buried Night

by partypaprika



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-06 08:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/pseuds/partypaprika
Summary: The piece of metal shows up in Brad’s bag during their stay in the luxurious accommodations outside of Baghdad. The metal itself isn’t much to look at—it’s vaguely round, thin and roughly the size of a quarter. It’s sitting right on top of his clothes, perfectly placed as if it’s been waiting for him.Brad picks it up, curious despite himself. It’s nothing special to look at. If there was any inscription or design on it, it’s long gone—just some odd indentations on its side and it’s warped, like it had been melted down at some point. Most likely, it’s a stray piece of metal that’s managed to junk itself in Brad’s bag instead of an actual trash.Brad should throw it away. But there's something about it that catches Brad's eye.





	Buried Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).



> To [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable), I hope you enjoy!

The piece of metal shows up in Brad’s bag during their stay in the luxurious accommodations outside of Baghdad. The metal itself isn’t much to look at—it’s vaguely round, thin and roughly the size of a quarter. It’s sitting right on top of his clothes, perfectly placed as if it’s been waiting for him.

Brad picks it up, curious despite himself. It’s nothing special to look at. If there was any inscription or design on it, it’s long gone—just some odd indentations on its side and it’s warped, like it had been melted down at some point. Most likely, it’s a stray piece of metal that’s managed to junk itself in Brad’s bag instead of an actual trash.

Brad should toss it—he doesn’t need some random-ass piece of shit in his bag getting things even dirtier than they have to be.

“Sergeant,” a voice calls. Brad’s spine instantly goes straight. LT is standing at the edge of the make-shift barracks room, holding a series of papers. “Do you have a moment?”

Brad pockets the piece of metal, closes his bag and gives himself a mental note to throw it away when he has a chance later.

“Of course, sir,” Brad says.

They walk outside the make-shift barracks over to a quieter room, Brad following the LT’s lead. There’s a little island in the middle and a space on the floor that’s conspicuously cleaner than the rest of the room, probably once home to a refrigerator. It seems like it’s previous life was probably as an office kitchen. Now it’s just a room filled with junk, debris stuffed in the corner and a slightly acrid smell.

Lieutenant Fick lays out a map of Bagdad on the island and marks off their orders for the next day. They’re sweeping a new quadrant. Brad has to resist letting out a snort when he sees which neighborhoods that they’ve been directed to go through.

“I see that they’re really going for the cerebral approach here, sir,” Brad says.

Fick laughs for one beautiful second and then he schools his face into neutrality. “We’ll have to trust that they are,” he says. After a pause, he says, “despite all evidence to the contrary.”

This time it’s Brad’s turn to reign in a smile. There’s not much that he’s going to miss about Iraq, but this here, he might.

As Fick starts to walk through their approach, there’s a burst of heat against Brad’s left leg that’s so sudden, he jolts back. Fick immediately stills and turns toward Brad, his face questioning. Brad looks down at his leg—there’s no bleeding, no obvious sign of injury. Everything looks fine. When Brad reaches into his left pocket, there’s only the piece of metal, cool against his fingertips when Brad runs his fingers over it.

“Everything alright, Sergeant?” Fick asks.

“Yes. For a moment, I thought that—” Brad cuts himself off. What would he say? That he thought he had been shot? That it was nothing but a cool piece of scrap metal. Fick keeps looking at Brad, his face curious. “It was nothing. You were saying, sir?”

Fick raises an eyebrow, but turns back to the map.

 

 

Later that evening, when Brad gets back to his bunk, ready for another six-hour shift where he’ll pretend to sleep, Brad takes the piece of metal out of his pocket. There’s a large, black plastic container that once held supplies and has now been repurposed into a trash can near the door. Brad should throw the metal piece away. It’s not like he needs to keep a small piece of trash in his pocket—especially one that’s as dirt-covered as this one.

But when Brad pulls out the piece, it catches in the light and he finds himself staring at it. If he turns it slightly, he sees a faint engraving on it. When Brad runs his fingers over it, he feels minute depressions and he wonders if there’s some design on it. Maybe some Iraqi art that’s been mucked up.

He can’t make anything more out though, so after a minute, he puts it back into his pocket. If nothing else, it can be his souvenir from this horrible fuck-up of a deployment.

 

 

 

Coming back home to Pendleton is a relief, just as much it is a shock. Deployment is always eight months of dying to go home and then getting home and realizing that it’s not quite the way you remember it. There are the things that Brad always misses—maxing out his acceleration down the freeway, his nieces, catching that perfect blue wave in the morning. And then there are the things that he doesn’t miss—the every day traffic, the monotony of routine inventories and trainings, the unpredictability of his schedule. Worst of all are the nights. All the sleep that Brad should be getting is restless and broken, and it’s more than a few mornings that he wakes up not sure which continent he’s on.

“Any plans for this evening?” Fick says as everyone disperses after a long day—he’s not smiling, but there’s something about his eyes that convey that he’s smiling all the same.

“I’ve been peer pressured to go to a bar to watch some sporting event that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about. Sir, I just didn’t know how to say no.” Brad says. Fick actually smiles at that.

“Well, in that case,” Fick says. “I feel like I ought to do the right thing and provide you with an excuse to leave the upper classmen party.”

They meet at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place in Oceanside near the beach. There are a few other families there or people grabbing their take-out orders, but it’s quiet. Nice.

They each order a Modelo and neither of them say anything for a few minutes. Brad watches Fick—he’s looking at his label and clearly working up to say something. Brad could say something, but he’s in no hurry. If Fick wants to say it, he will. Otherwise, they’ll shoot the shit. Hell, they could even sit there in silence and it would still be an upgrade on Brad’s other plans for the evening.

Looking at Fick, Brad can’t help but think about the things that he forced himself to un-see while they’re were in Iraq. He’s good-looking, but it’s more than that. The way that Fick holds himself, firm and focused. When they’d first met, Fick had looked at Brad and Brad had known that Fick was competent—that he wasn’t going to put up with bullshit, but he wasn’t going to be one of those yappy officers either. He’d looked at Brad, his lips quirking slightly, and everything had just _fit_.

Brad valiantly forces himself away from thoughts about the LT likely to get him dishonorably discharged and onto the muted football game playing on the small TV installed up on the wall.

Fick stills and Brad’s attention flashes to him. “I’ve put in my papers,” Fick says. Something in Brad deflates, but he forces himself to put on a smile.

“Congratulations, sir,” he says.

“It doesn’t feel like a congratulatory action,” Fick says. He stops and closes his eyes in minute frustration. “I like the men. I like what we do. But after the deployment in Iraq—” He cuts himself off, but Brad knows what he’s trying to say. It’s the same shit that Brad thinks about at night, when he wonders if he’s made the right decision. He loves being in the Corps. And yet...

But, he saw how Iraq was for Fick. How could he have missed it? The LT managed to take all that incompetence from above and remain unbroken. There are few men that Brad’s seen as calm, confident and sturdy every day. He protected his men. He protected Brad. He looked at Brad and knew what Brad was feeling. And he knew what to do—not what BS platitudes that the Corps normally spouted. But what to _do._

Nate did everything that he could to make the Corps better, and instead, it just got worse and worse. Brad would have had to be blind to miss just how much it ate away at Fick. It’s hard to imagine anyone else like Fick. But part of Brad is relieved that Fick’s getting out before Fick gives in.

“Something tells me that you’re not just going to sit around after leaving the Corps. In fact, I would be willing to wager that you’ll go on to be more effective to Corps policy after you leave,” Brad says.

Fick laughs and this time, it lights up his whole face. “You’re always one step ahead of me—even for my own plans.” Fick shakes his head ruefully as if to say that he should have known Brad would figure it out. “Yes, I would like to work in policy. Hopefully. For now, I’m just going back to school.”

“That classics and government degree isn’t going to be enough to get you to the finish line?” Brad asks.

Fick raises an eyebrow—Brad can see that Fick’s surprised that Brad brought that detail up, but gratified. Brad wonders if anyone else from the company remembers that about Fick and a small part of him hopes that they don’t. That this is something is can keep to himself and remember sharing with Fick.

“So I’ve been told. But I can’t pretend that I’m not looking forward to the thought of going back to school instead of being in the real world,” Fick says.

“Well, sir, I’m sure that after a few months of being pampered with reasonable amounts of sleep, no required PT and edible food, the Corps will seem like a distant memory,” Brad says.

“Somehow I doubt that no matter how much sleep I get, the Corps will ever be that for me,” Fick says. “Although, one perk of retiring is that I can finally make people stop calling me sir. Since I’m retiring, I think it’s only fair that you call me Nate now.”

“I think that’s a discussion for after your retirement party,” Brad says, but Fick fixes Brad with a look that says, _Brad, stop being silly_. He keeps staring at him and Brad’s never been good at going against the LT’s will. “Nate.”

Nate looks pleased at that although their attention is diverted when a waiter brings over their food. Reflexively, they both dig into the chow, tacos getting practically inhaled. While they’re eating, Brad lets himself take surreptitious looks at the LT—Nate—although thinking of Fick as Nate feels off. It will certainly take some getting used to.

At one point, Nate looks up, and he makes eye contact with Brad. Brad doesn’t flinch, although he knows that he’s been caught. The moment is suspended in time—a rising wave right before it crashes, the sea holding its breath as everything becomes crystal clear.

It stretches out and out, until there’s almost a faint ringing of anticipation in Brad’s ear. Nate is—is looking back at him. Neither one of them moves or says anything until the waiter comes back to their table with more water. Immediately, both of them snap their attentions back down to their food.

As Brad finishes off his last taco, there’s something heavy sitting in his stomach that he can’t quite put a name to.

 

 

 

Nate’s paddle party is, if not quite the stuff of legends, up there. Like most paddle parties, it starts with lots of speeches that quickly move into hilarity as everyone gets voraciously drunk. Wynn gives a particularly heartfelt one that everyone applauds and Rudy some frou frou speech about Nate living his best life, but it isn’t until Ray gives a speech that goes a little too in-depth about his plans to visit Nate and college girls that has at least half of the unit cringing.

Later, when Brad finds himself pleasantly drunk and relaxed, he goes to sit outside. He’s staring out into the sunset when he feels a warm presence against his side. Nate settles himself next to Brad, just close enough that their knees are touching.

Brad tries not to think about. Instead Brad focuses on the sound of crickets chirping in the yard, the smell of the steaks grilling, the way that the breeze ruffles Brad’s shirt. Anything but the way that Nate’s face looks so happy and open.

“God, this is beautiful,” Nate says after a long minute.

“The Corps does have other less attractive locales to be stationed at,” Brad allows. Nate shoots him a knowing smile—they’ve both been at many of those other less attractive options.

Brad wonders what Nate’s thinking about. If he’s counting down the minutes until he leaves. Or if he’s dreading it. Each second taking him towards an unstoppable destiny.

“You know, I never learned how to surf,” Nate says. There’s regret there and wistfulness.

“That’s a shame, sir,” Brad says.

“Nate—not sir,” Nate says firmly and he looks at Brad, holds eye contact until Brad has to restrain himself from a shiver going down his back.

Brad inclines his head in admission. “Nate.”

They’re both quiet a few minutes longer and Brad can’t help but look at Nate and see the man he’ll be in five, ten, twenty years. He’ll be going on to do great things. Brad wants to say that it’s been an honor to serve with him. He wants to ask Nate to stay. He wants Nate.

Eventually Brad looks back out across Poke’s trampled lawn—streamers and abandoned bottles everywhere. The sun’s slowly sinking below the house opposite of Poke’s backyard, fanning out in a riot of orange and red.

“You’re going to miss this, sir,” Brad says.

“Yes, I think that I will,” Nate says and Brad isn’t sure that Nate’s talking about the beautiful weather.

 

 

 

Eventually Christenson’s wife comes to pick up Christenson. She ends up with a gaggle of other Marines, including Brad, who she generously drives home, despite the fact that any one of them could, and in fact is likely to, ruin any carpeting in her car on one bumpy turn.

Somehow, Brad makes it home in one piece and after he thanks Lisa and Christenson, heads inside. A wise man would go into the kitchen and get some water—try to prevent a hangover. Brad doesn’t feel wise tonight, so he bypasses the kitchen and heads towards his room.

He’s halfway through undressing, when something bright from his nightstand catches the light and momentarily blinds Brad. It’s enough to pull Brad’s attention and he walks over to his nightstand to investigate.

There’s a piece of shiny metal sitting on his nightstand and it takes a minute for Brad to realize that it’s the same piece of metal from earlier. Had Brad cleaned it at some point? It certainly wasn’t that clean the last time he saw it. Or was it? Did it rub off inside one of his pockets?

Now that it’s clean, Brad can clearly make out a woman on it—she’s holding a hook-shaped knot that’s made of some type of grain, with a lion sitting at her feet. To her side, a star shines and for one brief moment the star seems to twinkle. It must be some type of coin, he thinks.

Brad also makes out markings that run along the outside of the coin, although it’s in no script that Brad recognizes. Brad lets his fingers run over the marks, wondering if this is one of those old languages that Nate would know. For one unguarded moment, Brad’s imagination conjures up Nate, in the room with Brad and half-undressed.

Without warning, the coin burns painfully hot in Brad’s left hand. Instinctively, Brad tries to drop it, but it won’t move—it’s stuck there, so Brad grits his teeth and prepares himself for the loss of some of his skin as he tries to use his right hand to pull it off. It doesn’t even budge. Now the pain is increasing, bad enough that Brad knows that he’s going to need to make an emergency call.

Before Brad can reach for his phone, the coin— _ripples_ —or—or, something—and then it’s fading, leaving only a white outline of the coin burned into the skin of Brad’s palm.

The pain stops, almost instantly, and when Brad tentatively touches his palm, it’s slightly warm, but nothing out of the ordinary.

For a long moment, Brad just stares at his hand. Eventually, he rubs against the skin seeing if it will come off. Nothing happens except the skin begins to gradually heat up, just like any other portion of Brad’s skin. The faint white circle stubbornly stays and after a while, Brad admits defeat.

The edges of inebriation had been pushed back the moment that the coin heated up—Brad’s instinctive training and emergency response taking over. But now that the emergency has passed, although it’s become no less weird, Brad feels the unsteadiness of the world begin to creep back in.

He promises himself that he’ll figure out what the hell happened to his hand in the morning and then shucks off the rest of his clothes before crawling into bed.

 

 

Brad wakes up in the middle of the night, disoriented, and with all of the lights in his room on. There’s a faint headache making itself known behind Brad’s temples, but it’s dull enough that Brad opens up his eyes. And then immediately freezes.

There, in front of Brad, stands a woman wearing a bronze plated cuirass that gives way to small, interlocking armored plates covering her abdomen. Below that, she wears curved bronze sheets over her thighs and tall, leather boots stretching up to her knees. She has dark skin and unbound wavy brown hair. And oddly enough, there’s a sheen to her—she looks almost effervescent, as if the light from behind her is illuminating her.

Brad’s up before he consciously thinks and moves to strike her. The woman immediately blocks Brad’s arms and then her body is moving quickly, faster than Brad can anticipate. She wraps one of her hands around Brad’s neck and Brad finds himself completely immobilized.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the woman says, frowning.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Brad says.

“You brought me in,” the woman says and she sounds amused now, one side of her fire-red lips curling up. “Nur-kubi, hush,” she says, looking down. It takes Brad a long moment to realize that the woman is addressing someone other than Brad. Brad follows the direction of her gaze to see a small lion on the floor, sitting obediently at the woman’s heels.

What the fuck.

“Now, can we sit and discuss things like reasonable adults?” the woman says. The little lion next to her growls loudly and it makes all the hair on the back of Brad’s neck stand up. “I’m not going to hurt you—after all, you’re the one who called me here.”

“What are you—” Brad tries to collect his thoughts. It’s more difficult than he would have guessed—everything feels like it’s surrounded by gauze and set off in the distance. “What do you mean?”

The woman releases Brad and she pulls forward Brad’s left hand. She carefully opens Brad’s fingers, clenched into a fist, and then she brings her free hand over until it’s over Brad’s palm and she opens it wide.

Right before Brad’s eyes, the circle blazes out brightly and then settles into a faint glow. “You called me,” she says again, punctuating each word. “Ishtar. You have taken a token of me, called me forth and made a request.”

Brad doesn’t know what to say. Ishtar is what? Some Mesopotamian goddess? This is Nate’s area, not Brad’s, Brad wants to viciously say.

“Ah,” the woman says. “You are thinking of him again.”

“Who? Nate?” Brad asks.

“Yes, him,” Ishtar says. “You want him. If that’s all you desire, he can be yours.”

“No,” Brad says emphatically.

“No, you don’t want him? I can tell when you’re lying,” she says and her voice gets stronger, more commanding until Brad feels himself compelled to answer.

“I don’t want him to do anything,” Brad says. “I don’t want anything. I especially don’t want anything to change.”

“Why must things change?” she asks. “You are simply allowing something to happen.”

Brad thinks back to dinner with Nate, with the way that Nate had met his gaze. At the way they’d sat outside of the paddle party. He thinks about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and Nate’s aspirations for the future. “I don’t want be the one responsible for messing up Nate’s life,” Brad says and Ishtar is still watching him, but her face looks open and understanding. “If there were a way to be together without changing our lives, I would do it in a second. But that’s not real life.”

“I see,” Ishtar says carefully. “Then it shall be done.” Before Brad can ask her what that means, the outline on Brad’s hand blazes up again, this time so bright, that Brad has to close his eyes.

 

 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to morning light streaming in through his windows. There are no lights in his house on and Brad’s somehow back in bed. Brad bolts up, but there’s no one in his room—not a mysterious woman, not a small lion, no one. There’s no metal coin on his nightstand either. But then, when Brad opens up his hand and looks down, he can see the circle, although now it encapsulates the woman from the night before—lion, ornaments and all.

Brad has no idea what in god’s name is going on.

 

 

 

Throughout the day, Brad can’t help but look at his left hand. Each time he checks, it’s disheartening to see the scar there, white and faintly shimmering. He tries to wash it off in the shower when he gets home, but it stays there, stubborn, perhaps more delineated than it was that morning, as if it to spite Brad.

He thinks about it as he makes himself dinner. He wants to ask someone about it—but who would he ask? Poke would think that Brad was crazy, a possibility that Brad hasn’t ruled out. Ray would die of laughter and offer absolutely no advice of use. Part of Brad wants to call Nate—but Nate’s officially out of the Corps. Does he even want Brad to call? And what would Brad say to him anyways?

Brad can imagine Nate picking up the phone and Brad hemming and hawing as he tried to explain that _yes, this scar just showed up. No, I didn’t get blackout drunk and get it. Although, yes, you’re right, sir, it is impossible for a scar to just show up_.

But that’s the thing, it’s there isn’t it?

Eventually, Brad decides that he’ll sleep on it. If it’s still bothering him in the morning—he’ll do something drastic. Like call his mom. Or maybe his sister.

Brad heads off to bed early, more exhausted than normal, and falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow.

That night, Brad dreams.

Brad’s used to vivid dreams now—they’ve been a hallmark of his life since his first deployment. People screaming, a medic trying to push through, blood everywhere, seeping through Brad’s fingers. His gun misfiring while his whole unit shouts for help. False memories. Real memories.

Mostly they weren’t there, but sometimes they were.

No dream that Brad had ever had was as vivid as this dream—there’s a bed beneath Brad, firmer than his own, and, oddly, the smell of fresh linen lingers in the air. Next to him, there’s a drowsy warm man pressed up against Brad’s back. Brad turns and something about the man is so familiar—his hooded eyes draw Brad in—and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Brad to cover the distance between the two of them and kiss his dream companion.

The first kiss between them is electric, like a jolt of caffeine straight into Brad’s veins, and Brad deepens the kiss until they’re both panting. They make out for hours or maybe minutes—there’s no concept of time in Brad’s mind, as if this dream could go on forever.

Eventually, Brad’s dreamt up man pushes even closer, moving against Brad, and the friction feels so delicately good that neither one of them take very long to come. Brad feels boneless and loose in the warm afterglow even with the man curled against Brad.

In real life, Brad likes to be up and out, showering, leaving before it gets awkward, sleeping in his own bed. But in his dream, it feels natural for Brad to reach out and let a hand splay possessively over the man. As the man relaxes into sleep, Brad thinks to himself that something about him looks familiar. But before he can puzzle it out, Brad yawns and then lets the dream pull him under.

 

 

Brad wakes up the next morning more well-rested than he can remember. The edges of his dream are still hanging around and Brad can’t stop himself from smiling at the memory of the dream. He can’t remember much about the mystery man of his dream, but he can remember the kissing. God, the kissing, the brush of the man’s lips against Brad. The hint of stubble rasping against Brad’s face and neck. The long, lean planes of the man’s body, toned when Brad had pulled him close.

Brad can’t stop himself from smiling on his whole drive onto the base.

 

 

When Ray sees Brad as they prepare for PT, Ray whistles. “Someone got some yesterday!”

“Your mom can’t seem to leave me alone,” Brad says.

“My momma does not leave hickeys on people’s necks like that,” Ray says disapprovingly. “Have you been stepping out on her?”

Brad’s hand flies up to his throat. There, on the upper right, just below Brad’s ear, is a faintly tender spot.

“Seemed your grandma needed some entertaining too,” Brad says, a beat too late. Ray doesn’t pick up on it though, launching into his expectations of the manner of treatment that his grandmother should be afforded to. After a second, Brad relaxes—he’d shaved that morning, he must have nicked his neck and not realized it at the time.

Relieved, Brad ignores the rest of Ray’s diatribe, only tuning back in when he realizes that Ray is talking about Captain Fick.

“What’s going on with Captain Fick?” Brad asks.

“You never pay attention to what I’m saying,” Ray whines. Brad stares at Ray until Ray sighs and gives in. “Nothing much—Gunny said that the Captain headed back to the East Coast.”

“Well, his family is from there. Can’t imagine why he’d stay around here,” Brad says, calmly. There’s no doubt in his mind that Nate made the right decision. He’ll go on to do big and better things. He’s just—Brad mentally stutters to a halt there. He can’t help but look down to his left palm, wondering about his dream with Ishtar, talking about Nate.

He doesn’t know what he thinks. Except, he misses Nate. It may have only been a day or two since he left Oceanside, but he’s been leaving the Corps and their unit for weeks, turned toward the bright march of his future while Brad stays here, unmoving.

Ray looks like he’s about to say something else, but everyone else is starting to assemble and both Ray and Brad go to take their spots.

During PT, Brad’s good mood leaches away and he can’t even lie to himself about the reason why.

 

 

Brad has the same dream a few nights later after he returns from a field exercise. He’s so exhausted, he practically falls asleep getting undressed and he’s barely crawled into bed before he’s fully out. This night, Brad dreams that he wakes up in a bed—different than the first dream—and it’s the dead of night. In the room, it’s dark except for the few bars of dim light canting in through the window to Brad’s right.

At first, Brad thinks that he’s really woken up. He’s convinced that it’s real until he realizes that his bedroom doesn’t have a window off to the right, it’s at the far end of the room. And then, a moment after that, Brad realizes that there’s someone else in bed with him, their heavy weight dampening Brad’s movements against the mattress.

There’s a muttered curse from next to Brad that he would know anywhere, so Brad really does sit up, groping for a light. When Brad locates a lamp next to him, he turns it on, and the harsh light spills into the room temporarily blinding Brad and—Nate. Nate.

Even if it’s a dream, the sight of Nate eases something in Brad.

“Hi,” Brad says. There’s a long moment where Nate groggily rubs his eyes.

“Hey,” Nate says, yawning wide. “You again.”

“Yes, me,” Brad says. “Wait, again?”

“When a dream is as good as yours was, a man doesn’t forget it easily,” Nate says.

Brad’s confusion must show, because Nate gives a low laugh. “Here, come,” he says. He reaches across Brad for the lamp, giving Brad tantalizing access to his neck, and then lays back on the bed.

Brad sits there in confusion until Nate forcibly pulls him down. “Sleep now,” Nate says and he closes his eyes, still facing Brad.

“Sir,” Brad starts.

Nate huffs in amusement. “Only my marines call me that,” he says.

It takes Brad a long moment to parse that one out and by the time that Brad thinks to correct him, Nate is already asleep, his breath even and clear.

Brad wants to savor this dream, watch Nate without any repercussion for as long as he can, but his eyes make their own decision and Brad joins Nate soon after.

 

 

 

A few nights later, Brad has a dream that he wakes up to Nate peeling off his shirt, slowly and carefully and then Nate gets creative in deftly mapping out the new terrain of Brad’s body.

When Brad wakes up in the morning, the shirt that he went to sleep in is missing. It’s not in his bed, under his bed or around his bed. His front and back door are locked. Brad carefully does not look at his left hand or think about where his missing shirt might be. It’ll probably turn up in a month, along with three mismatched socks.

There are also two more marks on his neck and what appears to be a bite on his collarbone. Brad reminds himself that he gets bruises and scrapes in training all the time. They’re not evidence of anything.

Except for the fact that two mornings after that, his boxer briefs are gone.

 

So, Brad decides to take matters into his own hands. The next night that he wakes up in dream-Nate’s room, Nate smiling down at him before leaning down for a kiss, Brad reminds himself to take something. It’s probably not what Brad’s thinking—how could it be? But, all the same, as Brad and Nate are drifting off to sleep, Brad carefully reaches over and intentionally grabs Nate’s shirt, instead of his own.

It’s a little tight, but Brad’s slept in worse. It smells like Nate in that indefinable way and when Brad presses up against Nate, surrounded by the clean, intoxicating smell that Brad has come to associate with these dreams, it feels like heaven.

That is, until Brad wakes up the next morning, wearing a dark gray shirt with the Harvard crest and motto on the front.

“Well, shit,” Brad says eventually.

 

Brad picks up the phone to call Nate a thousand times that day and can’t seem to press call any of those times.

 

There’s a sense of strange anticipation that night as Brad readies himself for bed—what will he say to Nate if he sees him? Will he say anything? Of course, he’ll say something. But what? It sounds crazy in his head—there’s no possible way that it sounds anything but crazy out loud.

When Brad wakes up that night, Nate is pressed up against his side, rousing slowly, a smile on his face. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Nate says and he starts to lean in before Brad stops him.

“Nate, wait,” Brad says—he could kick himself for the opportunity that he’s giving up—but he plunges ahead. “We need to talk.”

One of Nate’s eyebrows rises. “That’s a new one for a dream. I can say with certainty that while I’ve been on the receiving end of that conversation before, it’s never been from my subconscious.”

“It’s not what you think,” Brad says. “I’m not part of your subconscious.”

Nate sits up at that and fixes Brad with a look of amusement. “If you’re not part of my subconscious, then what are you exactly?”

“I’m real,” Brad says.

“Yes, because a man magically appearing in my bed in the middle of the night seems like the real option here,” Nate says.

“Have you noticed marks on you when you wake up that you can’t explain? Do you really think that you’re getting them because of how you sleep at night? Because I’ll tell you that I’m waking up with them too. And this morning, I woke up with a t-shirt that had the Harvard logo on it despite the fact that the closest that I’ve been to Harvard is New York City.”

Nate frowned. “That doesn’t prove anything. I could have gotten those as normal bruises.”

“But you haven’t,” Brad says.

“Say that I do believe you,” Nate says slowly. “How could you possibly be getting into my room?  Should I be concerned about handsome strangers breaking into my parents’ house to seduce me at 3 o’clock in the morning or do you have ulterior motives?”

“Wait,” Brad says slowly as his brain backtracks a few seconds to _handsome stranger_. He thinks about Nate’s voice saying, “Only my marines call me that.” As if Brad wasn’t one of his marines.

“Do you know who I am?” Brad asks slowly.

Nate focuses on Brad, which sends an entirely inappropriate rush of heat down Brad’s back. He hesitates for a long moment, before he finally says, “No.” Brad doesn’t quite know what to say. After another second, Nate tilts his head slightly. “Although, you do look familiar.” Nate looks at Brad even more closely. “And you know me.”

Yes, Brad tries to get out, but his mouth doesn’t work. It just stops. Brad tries again and gets no further. Now Nate’s looking at him curiously.

Brad tries to say his name this time, but nothing happens. “Excuse me,” he starts—that seems to come out fine—but nothing. Brad looks down at his hand. If it were possible for a scar of a woman to be looking smug, this one would fit the bill.

 _Son of a bitch_ , Brad thinks viciously. That god damn woman—or goddess—did this. Using some kind of magic or spell—she did something! The anger roils through him at the realization that he has no recompense against this. He forces himself to swallow down each of the curses on the tip of his tongue. Finally, when he feels like he has himself under control, he starts speaking again.

“Nate,” Brad switches tactics, figuring that Ishtar’s magic is now preventing him from telling Nate who Brad is. Nate makes a sound of acknowledgment.

“Something is going on here. I—” he can’t get out the word “magic”, which means that this definitely connected to that dream that Brad had and the inconvenient new addition to Brad’s hand. But Brad perseveres. “Every night, I go to bed in my own bed. And yet, for the past week or so, most nights, I wake up here in the middle of the night with you. And still every morning, I’m back in my own bed again.”

“Can you tell me where you’re going to sleep?” Nate asks.

Brad tries—he really does. But it’s like there’s gauze filling up his throat so quickly that Brad chokes on it, his words turning into a hacking cough. Nate’s already reaching over for a glass of water on one of his night stands that he hands to Brad. Brad gratefully drinks it down. When he’s finally settled, all that Brad can do is turn to Nate and smile apologetically. “It seems like I can’t.”

Nate watches Brad for a long minute. “It would seem that we most likely do know each other, at least in some capacity. And something is preventing you from giving me more information. At least, assuming that this all isn’t some new test that my subconscious has dreamed up for me.”

“I did like hearing the part about where you said that your subconscious dreamed up a handsome stranger for you,” Brad says. “I’m happy to go back to that.”

A smile splits across Nate’s face. “I can see why I like you,” he says and Brad has to force himself not to preen at that.

 

They spend a while talking—Nate tries a few more roundabout questions that each end up with Brad trying to expel a lung before he lets the matter drop. It’s conversation about nothing really—the applications that Nate has been working on, end of the baseball season—but Brad’s never talked with Nate this way. Before, it was always the LT, with the heavy duty of office standing between them. Now it’s just Nate.

Eventually, by some unspoken agreement, they wind up back under the covers. They’re not doing anything more romantic than just lying there—sharing the same bed and breathing the same air. And yet, Brad feels almost giddy at how close Nate is.

“We’ve talked about me,” Nate says. “But how are you doing?”

If this were real life—Brad would never have done this. Nate is—Nate. Destined for different things. Brad’s life is subject to Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell for at least the next fifteen years. If not more. Nate probably wants kids, a family, people who can stand up proudly with him.

But this isn’t real life and as far as Brad can tell, this won’t be. Suddenly, the gift that Ishtar has given makes itself apparent. Brad wants Nate—has maybe always wanted Nate since the first time that Nate looked at Brad and solemnly shook his hand, his handshake firm and steady and his eyes light. And now he can have him without repercussions. Without putting roadblocks in both of their futures.

“Good,” Brad says firmly.

Nate nods back. “Me too.” Nate scoots over, repositioning himself right next to Brad.

For a long moment, Brad holds his breath, frozen. And then he tells himself that he can have this. Just now, in this impossible space, Nate can be his.  Brad reaches a hand over Nate to pull him even closer and lets his face rest behind Nate’s head until they both fall asleep.

 

The next night, Nate snaps to awareness as soon as Brad wakes up. When Brad opens his eyes, Nate’s watching him and then Nate sits up and turns on a light.

“I found your underwear,” Nate says, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I went on a quest and it definitely isn’t mine. Well, it’s either yours or I have another person sneaking into my room to deposit their undergarments.”

“Perhaps I have started a trend,” Brad says. “Or you haven’t accounted for your overwhelming popularity. The things a man has to do to stand out from the crowd.”

Nate smiles at that and Brad feels a surge of triumph. “Should I put that on my resume? It could fill a very specific niche,” Nate says.

“Hopefully immediately following your prowess with mysterious men that appear in your bed,” Brad says, leering slightly. Nate blushes slightly. “Sir, don’t tell me that you’re going to get missish on me now,” Brad says, delightedly.

“I am most certainly not,” Nate says. “It’s just that we haven’t discussed—or rather, we need to talk about—”

Brad cuts Nate off by leaning in for a kiss. Nate eagerly reciprocates, letting Brad dictate the AO. At one point, Nate says, half-heartedly, “We should—” Brad buts off that advance by biting Nate and Nate gives out a strangled groan at that. “Or we could not,” he says.  

 

 

Quickly, Brad’s life falls into a pattern. During his days, there’s work, getting up for early morning PT, training, maintenance, more PT, paperwork, food somewhere in there and then extra PT. His evenings are infinitely better—Brad wakes up in Nate’s room, now familiar with its large desk in the corner, small closet with Nate’s clothes and bookshelves, crammed full with books of all kind.

Sometimes Brad wakes, a hunger for Nate filling him up and Nate seems just as desperate for it—greedy for each sound that Brad makes. Sometimes it’s quick, needs overriding all of Brad’s control, and other times it’s painfully and deliciously slow. Sometimes, they’re both tired, and they have hushed half-conversations that Brad can barely remember the next day.

And sometimes, they’re both wide awake, and they find themselves talking for what feels like hours—about Nate’s childhood or the fact that Brad has never lived where it snows. Their favorite books or the last TV show that they enjoyed. Brad can’t talk about what he does, but he can talk about work generally. The politics, the idiots, potential upcoming promotions.  

They must spend a significant amount of time together each night, but if Brad’s body registers that it’s getting less sleep, it hasn’t clued Brad into that fact. Brad knows that Nate is still trying to figure out the hows and whys of the situation—but for Brad, he’s happier not knowing if knowing means breaking this fragile existence that they have.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Nate asks one night. He’s idly tracing Brad’s scar on his palm.

“Hm?” Brad says. He knows what Nate is trying to ask, but he can’t help but feel guilty that he knows the full deck of cards, while Nate’s been given only the hearts and diamonds.

Nate frowns briefly, as if annoyed by the inadequacy of words. “Not knowing more about why this is happening?”

This is a tried and true conversation. Nate wants to understand, to change, to influence. In a perfect world, Brad would want those things as well. But for most of his life, he’s been placed in situations and told to make do.

Brad could brush the question off, but the furl of guilt in his stomach makes him give an answer. “What if knowing meant that this ended?”

“What if knowing meant that we could do more than have a few hours together at night?” Nate counters immediately.

Brad doesn’t say, _Would you want to be together in the light of day?_ He knows Nate would say yes. It’s easy to say yes in the darkness, where it’s the two of them inside the sphere of Nate’s light blue sheets and tomes of Herodotus.

It doesn’t get harder until there’s other people. Brad couldn’t kiss Nate in public or sit closely too closely. They couldn’t go to too many events together without being concerned about someone noticing. It would be unlikely that Brad would even be able to tell his family, let alone any of his friends.

“What if knowing meant that we couldn’t even have this?” Brad says back and it’s also true. Painful in a different way. “Please don’t try.” Nate makes a sound of vague compliance that Brad knows means shit-all. “Nate,” Brad says, catching Nate’s hand. “Please.”

“Ok,” Nate says. “Ok.”

 

 

“So, when are we going to meet her?” Ray asks a few days later while they’re prepping for an afternoon exercise. The rest of the company is scattered around, doing their own last-minute maintenance before they have to be ready. No one else is listening, but Brad instinctively gauges the distance to the nearest people. Ray continues on obliviously, like the inbred idiot that he is. “And before you try to deny it, you have been in a great mood for the entire last month. You didn’t even make fun of me last week when I suggested that we all go do laser tag.”

Brad opens his mouth to defend himself, but he does vaguely remember Ray suggesting it, like they were pre-pubescent boys about to get dropped off by their moms at some grungy mall for the afternoon. The thought that he didn’t mock Ray for this idea seems unthinkable…and yet, there’s no memory of a sharp retort forthcoming.

“See, Ray always knows what’s up,” Ray says smugly.

“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person. It takes you from undefinable creepy to afterschool special,” Brad says.

“Come on, tell me. I’ll even give you another chance to make fun of me about laser tag,” Ray says in a pleading tone that he probably thinks is less pathetic than the reality.

“No,” Brad says. Ray starts pouting, honest to god, lip stuck out in a pout. “What are you doing? Are you actually a misplaced seven-year-old that’s been hidden in the Corps to make my life miserable?” But even as Brad says it, he feels himself giving in, if just to make Ray stop inflicting this horrible vision on Brad.

“Fine,” Brad says. “But only if you never do that in front of me again.” Ray crosses his heart. “If you hold out your pinky, I’m walking away and never speaking to you again.”

Ray carefully retracts his hand. He goes to pout, realizes halfway there that he’s also agreed to not do that either and instead settles for a slightly pleading look, his eyes wide.

“God, you are pitiful,” Brad says. “Yes, I have been seeing someone. No, I am not introducing you. You should instead appreciate my good moods for the gift that they are.”

“What!” Ray says. “I crossed my heart for this and you give me that bullshit! I want details. Is she an eight? A nine?”

Brad can’t help but smirk and Ray gasps. “Did you bag an elusive ten, you motherfucker?”

Ray spends at least twenty minutes complaining about how unfair Brad is generally to his life—Brad tunes Ray out completely, only listening back in when Ray’s started to lose steam.

“Hey,” Ray says after Brad’s gotten a few minutes of golden silence. “That’s great, you know. It’s good for you.”

Brad does know.

“Although I can tell that you’re not introducing her to me because you feel threatened by my pure masculinity,” Ray says. Brad knows for a fact that Ray has all of Mariah Carey’s CDs and went to go see the Lizzie Maguire movie once he got back from deployment.

“Well, when she wants to see the aftermath of a poodle breeding with a human, I’ll be sure to send her your way,” Brad says. 

 

 

Brad thinks carefully about what Ray’s said all afternoon and on the drive home. When he’s gotten home, showered, and made himself some dinner, he takes out his phone and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the entry for Captain Nathaniel Fick.

Brad doesn’t do anything as gauche as take a deep breath, but he thinks about it before he presses the call button.

The phone rings three times and then there’s the sound of someone picking up. “Hello?” Nate says on the other line.

“Hello, sir,” Brad says. “It’s Brad.”

“Brad,” Nate says. “It’s great to hear from you.” There’s a distance in his voice though and it jars Brad—he’d become to used to the other Nate. While Brad is well-versed in this Nate, the other Nate has become his new normal and Brad feels a pang at how much he misses the other Nate.

“You too,” Brad says. They spend a while chatting about Nate’s applications and life on the East Coast, which Brad pretends to know nothing about before they segue into Brad’s life. Nate’s genuinely interested, providing commentary and insight as Brad talks, and Brad realizes with a deepening guilt that this is the first that Nate’s hearing about Brad’s life.

“Nate,” Brad says abruptly. He wills the words out: _You are in my dreams and I am in yours_. But it’s not even the curse that stops him. Just the thought of Nate’s tone going neutral and polite, detaching itself from Brad.

“Yes?” Nate asks.

“You—I, I have to run, but I’m glad we talked,” Brad says. He’s never thought of himself as a coward before. The knowledge tastes especially bitter now.  

“Me too,” Nate says.

 

 

Brad feels extra guilty that night, which is how he ends up proof-reading Nate’s statement of purpose since Nate is freaking out about his applications, even in the god-forsaken middle of the night. Brad had sarcastically thrown out, “If I read your paper, will you stop talking about it?”

Nate had looked at Brad, desperate hope in his eyes, and asked, “You would read it for me?”

There have got to be a million people better suited towards critical review than Brad, but Brad grits his teeth and starts reading.

“It’s solid,” Brad says when he finishes. He’s moved to Nate’s desk while Nate is lying on the bed, his hands covering his face. “I like it. Let me read it one more time though.”

Nate lets out a groan of frustration that Brad can’t help but laugh at. “Oh come on, you survived being dragged around by the idiocy that is the Corps logistics planning, you can wait ten more minutes while I read this one more time.”

Brad dives in again and grabs Nate’s pen to jot down a few notes to himself. When he finishes, Nate immediately sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, face as prepared for battle as it had been for each Corps mission.

Brad walks Nate through each of his points about where he’d gotten lost or the point that Nate was making didn’t seem to align with the overall structure. Nate nods carefully and when Brad finishes, he asks with just the slightest hint of hesitation if Brad liked it.

“Yeah,” Brad says, taken aback. “Absolutely. I think that you’re a great writer.” Nate’s face twists slightly, as if he’s already internally arguing with that point. “People have accused me of many things over the years. So far, no one’s ever accused me of blowing smoke up their ass.”

That makes Nate smile and when he looks back at Brad, his shoulders have relaxed.

 

When Brad wakes up the next morning, the memory of that is almost enough to wipe his guilt away. Almost.

 

 

And then, a week later, returning from training in North Carolina, Brad checks his phone to see that there’s a message from Nate earlier that morning asking Brad to call him back.

“Nate?” Brad says when Nate picks up the phone. “Got your message. What’s going on?”

“Don’t you think that I should be asking that?” Nate says and his voice sounds cold and angry.

“What?” Brad says and then he stops, because Nate can’t be saying what Brad thinks that he’s saying.

“Are you going to tell me that you don’t know what the current configuration of my room is,” Nate says. There are half a dozen other people around him, on various calls of their own and Brad can’t be having this conversation here.

“I can’t talk,” Brad says.

“Can’t or won’t?” Nate says, his voice sharp enough that Brad flinches.

“I’m still on base,” Brad says. “Let me—let me call you back when I get to my car. It’ll be max thirty minutes.”

Nate manages a stiff, “Fine,” before he hangs up abruptly.

 

When Brad gets to his car, he takes the deep breath that he so dearly needs. “Nate,” Brad says once Nate picks up. “Please let me have the opportunity to explain.”

“If I didn’t want that, I wouldn’t have picked up,” Nate says and Brad should feel bolstered by that, but instead he feels worse. Why should he get the chance to explain?

But he owes Nate an explanation, even if it’s not a logical one at all, and so Brad starts from the beginning, with the coin in Iraq. Nate lets Brad get all the way to the present, before he says anything.

“Do you know how long it took me to figure it out? A few weeks ago, Ray mentioned that you had a new scar on your hand and then suddenly today, it hit me. The only thing that I could remember about you was that. But,” and Nate struggles here for a second. “But you knew. You knew this entire time.”

There’s a long silence and when Nate speaks again, he sounds like he’s struggling. “Why didn’t you even try to tell me? Instead you spent the entire time knowing what I didn’t. Being a part of my life and never allowing me into yours. Do you know how much I wanted to know who I was kissing every night? Do you know how much I was willing to give up to have you in my life? And you didn’t even make the smallest effort. As I was mentally crossing people off, I took you off the list after you called. I thought that there was no way that you could be in contact with me and not tell me. You let me talk about my applications, which you knew every intricate detail of.” Nate trails off at the end, in apparent disbelief.

“Nate—” Brad says, finally unable to stop himself. “My nights with you are the best part of my life. I look forward to going to sleep every night, hoping that each night will be one that I spend with you. But you of all people know what this life is like. You want things in life—you want a family and kids and you want someone in your life. You’ve said it maybe a thousand times. And you can’t have that with me. Not now and maybe not ever.”

“That is a bullshit reason,” Nate says.

“You know what, Nate?” Brad says, his patience at an end. “I was trying my best. Next time that I get struck with a supernatural curse, I will do my best to fuck it up further instead of Scooby-Doo my way out of it.”

“That’s not at all true, soldier,” and Nate’s voice is icy cold. “You were being selfish and cowardly.”

Nate’s not exactly wrong. There’s not a lot that Brad can say in response to that.

“I need some time to think,” Nate says and then hangs up.

Brad wants to laugh or cry or honk his horn about fifteen times. Instead he buckles up his seatbelt and carefully drives home.

 

 

 

It takes Brad a long to fall asleep that night—there’s a cricket right outside his window, calling out loudly, and the air in his room feels thick and heavy, so Brad keeps getting up to open his window to let air in or close it because the cricket is driving him crazy. But the cricket is better than sleeping, because sleeping means seeing Nate and for the first time in a long time, Brad’s dreading seeing Nate just as much as there’s a part of him that still wants to see Nate, consequences be damned.

Finally, _finally_ , the cricket fucks off and Brad falls asleep, his body too well-conditioned to let an existential crisis dictate its schedule. When Brad wakes up, it’s to morning and sunlight is streaming through his window.

There’s no Nate. There’s nothing, except the faintest sense of cramping in his left hand and when Brad lifts his hand up, there’s no sign of any scar. Just clean skin.

“Damn it,” Brad says. “Fuck.”

 

 

The next week is one of the worst that Brad’s had in a while. He can’t seem to sleep property, he’s in a bad mood at work, and he cannot get himself to snap out of it.

“Ok, I’m saying this as a friend,” Poke says. “I know that you broke up with your girlfriend or whatever.”

“What?” Brad says.

“Look, everyone knows at this point. That stick up your ass could be waving a flag with the news on it,” Poke says and Brad has to grit his teeth together. “But get your shit together. If you broke up with her, call her up and plead with her to take you back. If she dumped you, she’s an idiot, and show her what she’s missing by finding a rebound. Either way, figure your shit out.”

Brad glares at Poke but Poke doesn’t stop looking back. “Consider my shit sorted,” Brad says stiffly.

Poke rolls his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh. “Lord help us. I will sacrifice myself for the team and take you to get drunk tonight.”

 

They end up at a bar and Poke watches Brad drink his way through three beers before he finally relaxes long enough to let some of the story drop. It comes out in fits and starts, Brad switching pronouns as best he can and keeping the details vague, but Poke seems to get the overall picture.

“She wants something different than what I can offer,” Brad says.

“Really?” Poke says, eyebrow raised. He takes a long sip of beer. “Because that last call did not sound like her wanting something different than you. In fact, it sounds like she hated the fact that you decided that for her. Women hate being told what they like and don’t like.”

Brad’s not sure if the fact that Nate’s not a woman makes that advice more or less true. “Seriously,” Poke says. “I suppose it comes down to what you need? Do you need her in your life? Is she worth all of stress? If the answer’s no, then you made the right decision. If the answer is yes…maybe you should reconsider.”

Brad sighs and then finishes off his beer and orders another one.

“What are you going to do?” Poke asks.

Brad looks at the label on his beer. “Call her,” he says grimly.

Poke smiles. “My job here is done.”

 

 

Brad calls Nate when he gets home—he should probably wait until he’s sober or it’s not the middle of the night there, but suddenly he can’t wait. He’s gone eight whole days without seeing Nate or talking to him and it’s killing Brad.

“Brad?” Nate says, picking up on the fourth ring. His voice is drowsy with sleep and it sounds so familiar, that Brad wants to wrap himself in it, just crawl into Nate’s bed.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Brad says and then in a rush since it’s bursting to get out, “I’m sorry. I just—I was scared. You were right. About everything. I knew what I was doing.”

There’s a long pause, during which, Brad’s heart firmly lodges itself in his throat and Brad wishes desperately that he’d been able to stop himself from calling.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Nate says eventually. He speaks quietly into the phone, but he sounds more awake.

“I think I’ve just had one of the worst weeks that I’ve ever experienced and after some of the weeks that we had in Iraq, I think that’s saying something. I just—” and Brad tries to think of the right words to say—“realized that everything I’d been doing had been for protection. But why was I doing that if the protection that I’d built made us more miserable?”

“I hated this last week too,” Nate says. “And I’m sorry as well. It’s easier for me to say that I want to do this. Your job is on the line. They certainly won’t kick me out of grad school just for dating a man.”

“But they might not offer you those jobs you want when you graduate,” Brad says.

“Call me optimistic,” Nate said. “And you won’t be in the military forever.”

“That’s true,” Brad says. “I just don’t want to be the reason that you don’t get the things that you want.”

“Brad,” Nate says. “You’re the thing that I want.”

“Are you sure?” Brad asks.

“Pretty fucking sure,” Nate says. “Considering that I was looking at tickets today to come out to California to beat you over the head in person.”

“That’s—that’s good,” Brad says.

They must talk some more, but when Brad wakes up the next morning, he realizes that he must have fallen asleep with the phone still on because it’s recorded a four-hour long conversation. It’s also the best night of sleep Brad’s since their fight.

At work, Poke’s smug face of righteousness doesn’t even phase him.

 

Nate shows up a week later in LA, carefully chosen to not be right on the Corps’ doorstep. Brad doesn’t kiss him at the airport, but he does hug Nate and Nate hugs him back. When they carefully step apart, neither one able to stop themselves from smiling.

After they get into Brad’s car, Nate reaches over and holds his left hand out. Brad takes it in his right and interlaces his hand.

“So tell me about these daytime activities that you claim to want to do,” Brad says.

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Shut up and take me to the hotel,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“Yes, sir,” Brad says and he can’t keep himself from smiling either.


End file.
